


Embrace Another Fall

by Smoke_Screen



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Curses, Gen, Hurt Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-04-14 08:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4557246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smoke_Screen/pseuds/Smoke_Screen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>She’s standing on the street, looking up, cold dread coiling around her like a snake as he sways on the edge of the roof. Ten stories out of her reach.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He’s not, actually, Emma knows. He’s right there, draped over her lap and chest, dead weight threatening to slip from her grasp. Her hands are cold, and she wishes he would shiver when she rakes her fingers through his hair.</p><p>[*A note concerning the so far unfinished state of this <em>thing</em> is at the bottom of my profile page, please spare it a look if you're interested in the story! Love to all!*]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Is On You

**Author's Note:**

> *This takes place a few weeks after “Heroes and Villains”, after Rumplestinskin’s banishment from Storybrooke, and disregards his actions after that.
> 
> *This story is also on FanFiction.net, although my user name there is TheHMMWV. Just so there is no confusion.
> 
> *I have **7 more chapters already written** , and I will be posting them over the next few days while I'm working on the next one. The first one's short, I know.
> 
> *I always love to hear what you think, enjoy!

_She’s standing on the deck, long hair flowing freely down her back. She’s looking down at him, smiling. Milah’s hand comes up, finger curling. There’s this wild spark in her eyes as she waits for him._

_Killian Jones, standing on the dock, twenty feet from the Jolly Roger, doesn’t hear them approach. He sees it at the same time he feels hands on him, a dark shadow over Milah’s shoulder. He tries to move, but his arms get pulled behind his back. She’s shouting his name, sword already drawn. He opens his mouth to warn her, tell her to turn around. One of the men holding him drives his knee in his stomach, and he can’t breathe. His lips are still moving, but his warning is barely a whisper. The shadow is right behind her. Killian struggles harder, desperate. The grip on his arms intensifies, and they start dragging him away. He feels his shoulder dislocate, grits his teeth._

_“Killian!” She’s running down the steps, sword in hand, resolve on her face. He thinks, she’s so beautiful._

_He kicks back, hears something brake. His arms are suddenly free and he doesn’t look back, doesn’t waste any time. He runs to her, heart going wild in his chest. She’s barely ten feet away, but the shadow is suddenly between them, and it’s not really a shadow. It’s the cowardly husband, except he doesn’t seem fearful at all. He doesn’t seem human._

_It all happens at once. The raw scream that rips his throat to shreds mixes with Rumplestinskin’s sick cackle and his hand is in Milah’s chest._

_“No, nono! Stop!” Killian doesn’t realize he’s falling until his face is buried in the ground. There’s someone on his back, holding him down. His shoulder’s on fire. He fights for all he’s worth, but can manage to loosen the hold just enough to turn his head, look at her._

_Her eyes are wide, surprised. As if she hasn’t yet noticed her heart is no longer where it should be. And no, no, it’s not fair, it’s- He can’t-_

_“I-” But Rumplestinskin doesn’t let her finish, doesn’t even give them a goodbye._

_“NO!” He doesn’t notice breaking two fingers in his struggle. He doesn’t care. “Milah!”_

_But it’s too late, and there’s dust seeping through Rumplestinskin’s fingers. It’s her heart, and it’s too late. It’s-_

_The world stops._

_He can’t breathe._

_Her body falls._

_“This is on you.”_

_And with that they’re gone, all of them._

 

He wakes up screaming. “No, Mil-” A dream, it was a dream. His body goes slack against the mattress, eyes closed. A nightmare.

 

And that’s when it finally registers, the pain. It’s still dark in the captain’s quarters, so it takes Hook a few moments to realize why his right hand looks off. Two of his fingers are bent in a way that shouldn’t be possible, and when he tries moving them, everything goes black for a second.

 

There are no mirrors on the ship, but Hook doesn’t need one to see the bruises that splatter his torso.

 

The thing is, Storybrooke’s been calm for a few weeks now. The thing is, there were no fights. The thing is, when he went to bed last night, there wasn’t a scratch on him.

 

“Oh bloody hell.”


	2. And The Thing Is

“What happened?” If he tries hard enough, he can hear a trace of anger in her voice, hidden under layers of surprise. It’s strange, after all the time he spent alone. He’s still not quite used to it, having someone care about him. Having someone be angry at his getting hurt. It’s been so long.

 

“I-

I’m not sure.” It’s a quiet evening, just like the one before. Dr. Whale didn’t even ask, and if he had, a bar fight would have been convincing enough. He doesn’t want to lie to Emma though.

 

“I think I dreamed it.” And even to his own ears, it sounds crazy.

 

“You dreamed…

What?” And there it is, that comically disbelieving look spreading through her eyes.

 

“That’s not…” _Possible?_ Emma thinks, can she even say that, anymore?

 

That night, she stays.

He protests the intention, he’s a grown man. He doesn’t need her watching over him. But the truth is, he doesn’t want her to see. Asleep, he can’t pretend, can’t tease, can’t smirk and say something inappropriate. Asleep, he’s an open book. It almost makes his skin crawl, but then he looks at her, bites back the urge to hide. Some habits are hard to break, especially when you’ve been nursing them for as long as he has, but, he knows now, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

 

That night, she stays.

Sleep doesn’t come easily.

 

_This time, he knows it’s a dream._

_It’s early morning and Granny’s smells of fresh coffee. There’s a cup in his hand and someone’s sitting in a booth behind him, the person’s elbow touching his shoulder. He almost doesn’t notice any of these things._

_He can’t look away._

_Liam pauses, brows drawing together. “Is something wrong?”_

_God, he hasn’t heard that voice since…_

_There’s this overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around his brother and not let go, but his frozen to the spot._

_He manages a nod. A second later, a smile. For a moment, everything’s right with the world._

_“Liam.”_

Emma almost dozes off on a chair, pulled up next to the bed. A whispered “Liam” has her wide awake. She feels something tighten painfully in her chest at the soft expression on Hook’s face. It’s something she hasn’t seen yet. She think, is this what Killian Jones, a navy officer, looked like. There’s a smile curving his lips and she allows herself to hope. Maybe nothing will happen.

 

_Killian doesn’t realize right away the two of them are suddenly alone in the coffee shop. He doesn’t care, as long as he has his brother sitting across from him._

_The reality twists quicker than he can react, the wooden table extending newly born arms that wrap around his hands. The floor is quicksand underneath him, and then it’s not, leaving his feet trapped in solid ground. Killian looks at his brother, eyes wide and terrified, and Liam doesn’t see anything, he realizes. He’s still talking, still sipping his coffee. He wants to scream, tell him to run. He knows it’s futile, just as he knows his struggling is futile, but he can’t stop. Can’t just give up. He wants to scream ‘no!’ and ‘run!’ and ‘you can’t do this!’ but his jaw is locked tight and all that comes out is a pained growl as he rubs his wrists raw. And Liam doesn’t see, doesn’t hear a thing._

_Rumplestinskin’s breath on his face makes his skin crawl. He feels sick._

_“Watch this, dearie.” And he can’t help but comply, his eyes glued to Liam’s face, mind working frantically to memorize every line, every feature, as a dreamshade thorn imbeds itself in his chest._

_Killian isn’t sure if he’s crying, but he might be because everything’s blurry._

_And he’s suddenly free and Liam’s looking at him, and before he can stand up and go to him Liam’s saying “Why didn’t you stop him” and Liam’s saying “Why?” and Liam’s falling down._

_There’s that sick cackle again and-_

_“This one’s on you.”_

_-and he’s screaming, and it’s too late._

 

But it does. Something always happens. The peace on his face gets swiped away so quickly it makes her wonder if it was ever there. If maybe, it was just her wishful thinking. And then he’s fighting something she can’t see and she hesitates, just for a moment. At the sound he makes, she wills her eyes not to go to his face.

 

Emma is strong, but restraining him completely proves to be impossible. Asleep, he’s fighting as if his life depended on it. And the thing is, it scares her, and the thing is, maybe it does.

 

She almost misses it, the way the skin just above his bandaged hand starts turning red. She has him pinned underneath her, and there’s nothing there. Her stomach turns as she watches, out of nowhere, small cuts appear on his wrist that proceed to grow, turning to tears. His other wrist is hidden by the brace, but there’s blood slowly gathering at it’s edges.

 

She’s distracted, lets up her grip on him just a bit. It’s enough though, enough for him to wrench his slung arm away. Sharp pain radiates down her right side as the hook catches her collarbone.

 

A scream pulls her attention from the bleeding cut on her chest and she thinks, the human throat isn’t supposed to make that sound. But his body stills underneath her, arm falling uselessly to his side. When she looks at his face his eyes are open and he’s crying. She feels the world tilt on it’s axis and he’s crying. Aside from the lifeless body of her son, Emma has never witnessed something so… wrong.

 

A litany of “I’m sorry”s falls from his lips jumbled and almost inaudible. She doesn’t quite want to know. She doesn’t ask, doesn’t say anything when he finally seems to realize she’s there, still straddling him, still gripping his right arm.

 

In a nearly delirious state, he still manages to connect the dots. The blood on her chest, the stain growing slowly. The blood on his hook.

 

He looses his lunch, body twisted painfully over the edge of the bed, half of him still trapped under the blonde.

 

It’s too much. It’s all too much and for once, Captain Hook vacates the premises. And all that’s left behind is a shaking, sobbing boy who’s lived too long.

 

Emma doesn’t sleep that night.


	3. A Poison That I Swallow

By the time light filters through the curtains, his eyes are red and burning. Both dreams have been replaying in his mind over and over and over again until they mixed and blended and he can’t lay there any longer. Emma, her arms still wrapped around him, pressed against his back, is dozing. Not quite asleep, not quite awake.

 

He breathes, and it hurts. His body too. Shame seeps through his veins, the guilt at hurting her.

 

The cabin smells of rum and vomit, wind seeping in through the wooden boards and she’s warm against him, a living breathing sea. Powerful and there. Like the sea’s always been. He wants to lose himself in her, wants a reprieve from his thoughts. From himself.

 

He finally finds the strength to pull himself up, and he does so slowly, trying not to jostle her too much. Exhaustion makes him sway on his feet, if for a moment, and then he’s just standing there, not quite sure what he ever did to deserve this. The dreams, the pain, he thinks with a bitter smile, he knows he had those coming. But the messy blonde hair, the soft, parted lips, the bright brown eyes he knows are hidden beneath those eyelids. In his bed. He thinks of Baelfire and wishes he didn’t. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve her.

 

Pulling up a blanket isn’t much of a task. With only one hand and three working fingers, Hook has to bite back a groan of frustration. Pulling up a blanket _shouldn’t be_ much of a task.

Emma curls up in it and the irritation gives way to something else. Hook quickly puts out the tiny spark in his chest, not yet ready to give up on his misery.

 

He knows that he’ll have to pull himself together, grit his teeth and keep going, for bother their sakes. But she’s finally asleep and he has a little time left.

 

There’s a bottle in his hand when he leaves the cabin as quietly as he can manage.

 

…

 

Out on the deck, it’s cold. The sky is grey, dark clouds flowing overhead and beneath his feet, reflected in the restless water. Balancing his weight on the bowsprit, a bottle of rum in hand, awkwardly held by just three fingers, he wants the Jolly Roger back.

More than sees, he feels her come to stand behind him.

 

“It’s him.” Her eyebrows go one floor up, but she waits for him to continue.

“Rumplestinskin.”  And his voice is a low growl of a wolf and a hunter.

 

“How do you-”

“I know!” He barks, she steps back. His shoulders sag. “The crocodile doesn’t give up, lass.”

 

She takes the bottle, takes a swig. Coughs.

“This is vile.”

 

He turns around, laughs at the expression on her face. “My brand of poison.”

 

_Like a poison that I swallow, but I want the world to die._

_…_

“Was it her?” Voice low, careful, Emma hates the feeling of taking to a frightened child. She knows he’s not one, but the image and feel of him shivering against her, masks and all pretense gone, is still too fresh in her mind.

 

She thinks, there’s a reason people don’t live forever.

She thinks, they aren’t built for it.

She thinks, three hundred years of pain is a ton of brick on your chest.

 

Missing the tension that creeps up his spine, she watches the clouds glide over his head.

 

“No…” The bowsprit creeks under him, and the sound is strange. It’s not the Jolly’s bowsprit, it’s not _his_ bowsprit. It’s not home.

 

“No, Liam. This time, he killed my brother.” And old anger rises steadily in his chest, drowning out the hurt and sadness. It’s a relief, almost, a feeling he’s grown used to. Anger’s what had driven him for so long.

 

Despite broken fingers and an unsteady shoulder, his movements are fluid as he gets off of the bowsprit and jumps back on the deck. A pirate to the core, Emma muses, then shakes her head, a smile managing to sneak past her. She knows better, now. Nevertheless, she seeks out his eyes and finds _Captain Hook_ looking back at her.

 

For all the times she wished he’d drop the act, now it was a relief. It’s easier to cope with a pirate captain out for blood than a-

and it feels wrong to connect the word to the man before her

-a broken human being. With sharp edges on both sides, cutting both in and out, and she pulls the sweater tighter around her, hiding the blood stain on her chest. But that’s not the kind of hurt she’s scared of.

And Emma swallows down the shame at her own selfishness. She makes a promise, if only to herself, that she won’t let it go on forever. She’s just being practical.

 

The practical Sheriff Swan says, “Alright, let’s go visit Regina.” And at the confused look he gives her, “If this is a curse of some sort, she’s our best chance.”


	4. Dreaming Of Ghosts

“What if she can’t help? My mom?” It’s late in the afternoon and Henry’s question comes out as a whisper. He almost doesn’t say it, but he knows he’s voicing the thing they are both thinking. He’s sitting by a window, Killian at his side, watching the storm build. It’s too dark for that time of day. He can see his moms’ reflections, seated at the other end of the room. It seems like they haven’t moved for hours, each bent over a book. Every now and then, one would say something, pages would be rifled through, things pointed out, theories exchanged. So far, every would be breakthrough has ended with a frustrated sigh and occasionally the sound of a book being slammed against wood.

 

Henry almost doesn’t say it, because the man next to him has been going back and forth, from broken to vengeful, his resolve wavering and the mask falling of, just for him to put it back on. Henry doesn’t understand and he doesn’t know what to do, and a part of him hates it. Another part of him, the one he tries not to acknowledge because it feels selfish, is glad. Because he has nightmares, maybe more of them than a kid his age has a right to, but he always gets to wake up. He always gets back the family he looses during the night, and he doesn’t want to know what it’s like to dream of ghosts.

 

The question’s a whisper and Hook almost misses it, but it has a will of it’s own and it penetrates the fog surrounding him. Had Henry asked him that two days ago, when he’d first come here with Emma, Hook would have done his best to reassure the lad. A smile might not have been as easy as it usually was, but it would’ve been there. Now, he’s not sure he could manage it, and he doesn’t try. He’s been using his three good fingers to rub his shoulder, a temporary habit picked up after he’d dislocated it. It doesn’t hurt anymore, unless a finger is jabbed in the right spot, which he now does. The pain flares up, spreads down his arm and dies down to a dull throb in a matter of seconds, but it clears his head a bit. Hook wonders, how long before that technique stops working.

 

“I don’t know, lad. Let’s hope she can.” It’s a weak answer and he knows it, but two days of no sleep have left him dazed. Not thinking about the very real possibility that Regina might not be able to do anything, proves to be a challenge.

 

It’s been little over forty eight hours since they’ve come to Regina’s house, looking for help. A little over forty eight hours of going through stack upon stack of books, of calling anyone and everyone who’s ever dabbled in magic. The only thing they’ve got so far is that it’s definitely a curse.

 

“Tell me about him?”

 

It’s not the words themselves that catch Hook off guard, it’s the almost shy tone with which they are spoken, so unlike the lad. He’s really awake for the first time in hours as he looks at Henry, no explanation needed who he’s asking about. He’s tempted to just brush it off, but the soft expression on the boy’s face is laced with genuine curiosity, and Killian thinks how he’s the only living person who knows how Liam Jones talked, how he moved, how he protected his little brother and how much larger than life he was, standing on the deck of his ship. There are people who know the story of his death, but Killian doesn’t want the memory of his brother to die with him.

 

He says, “When we were kids, we _borrowed_ a boat…”

 

He says, “Liam hated apples…”

 

He says, “Liam was the bravest man I know…”

 

He says, “He never got to fall in love…”

 

And the memories are so bittersweet Killian almost chokes on his words.

 

“He would be proud of you.” Henry doesn’t have to think about it. He’s surprised when Killian smiles, a barely there curve of lips that’s painful to see, and says with no doubt in his voice,

 

“No lad, he wouldn’t be.” Liam would love him despite three hundred years of piracy. But his brother was an honorable man.

 

“The things I’ve done… It wasn’t good form.” His eyes slip shut so he doesn’t see Henry get ready to protest, but it’s just as well because he doesn’t get a chance.

 

“Hey.” Emma is crouching in front of Hook, and he must be farther gone than he’d thought because he hadn’t even noticed her approach. Henry isn’t sitting in the chair next to him anymore, and he wonders if he’s starting to lose time.

 

“Are you ready to reconsider?” She tries not to think of what she’s actually asking him to do. Tries not to think of the look on his face when she’d first suggested it.

 

_“Don’t fight.” It’s a plea, but Killian looks at her like she’d slapped him._

_“Next time it might be more than a few broken fingers and a dislocated shoulder.” It’s a reasonable request, Emma knows, but somehow it still feels like she’s betraying him._

_It takes an hour of talking that proves to be useless for her to finally snap._

_“They’re gone, Killian! And if you keep fighting to protect the dead, you just might join them!” It had to be said, but she wishes she didn’t have to be the one to say it. Because she wishes she didn’t have to bare witness to the pain that flashes in his eyes._

_“I don’t want to lose you.” She looses the fight, and tears fall._

_So he decides not to sleep._

“You can’t go on like this forever.”

 

“I can’t do it, love. Can’t just sit back and watch them die.” Killian wants to unsee the desperation that briefly shows on her face. But she’s asking him to make an impossible choice.

 

“No. No, I guess you can’t.” She wants to scream.

 

“We’ll find a way.” Emma tries not to let it show, how the words taste like a lie.


	5. What If

He goes upstairs, hours later, Emma just behind him. If his vision weren’t blurry she’d look tired and cranky, but as it is all he can see is a shape with blonde waves and a dazzling smile. Because no matter how tired he is, she’d always be beautiful for what she is. He stands, next to yet another window, because sitting down is getting to be a risk. Lets her turn on something she calls a computer and soon after music floods the room. It’s loud and complicated, so many sound combining, so many more than he’s used to but it’s good. It gives him something to focus on, keeps his mind occupied even if he can’t really make out the words. If nothing else, the sheer volume will keep him awake for a while.

 

“Hook.” And he can’t make out the crease in her brow, can’t make out the worry that almost overshadows the exhaustion.

 

“I can’t.” He answers because he knows the question. He answers because it doesn’t take any thinking. Because his thoughts are tangled up and they flow into each other, like bodies of water, where you can’t tell where one begins and the other ends. He doesn’t hear her breath catch because the music’s too loud and he doesn’t see her posture deflate, and he doesn’t have to. There are two people in both worlds he’d never hurt if he had any choice, and one of them if standing in the room with him.

 

But the thing is, he doesn’t have a choice.

But the thing is, she’s not asking him to part the sea or rip out his own heart.

But the thing is, she’s asking him not to fight to save the people he loves.

And even though, even when he’s asleep, he knows they’re gone and no matter how many bones he breaks trying to get to them he’d never be able to, he can’t stop. They’re dead and when he wakes up nothing will be different. He’ll still hate himself and they’ll still be dead, but if he just sits back and does nothing he’s not sure he’d be able to live with himself.

 

“Please.” There are tears in her eyes that he’s not used to seeing so he keeps his eyes closed, even though it feels like he’s going to pass out any second now. What if next time, it’s not Milah and it’s not Liam. What if next time it’s David and he doesn’t do anything and his fingers heal and David ends up dead? What if it’s Emma, and he wakes up being the reason yet another little boy’s ended up as an orphan? What if it’s Henry?

 

His wrists are still torn up but he doesn’t feel it anymore. It’s almost like a dream and for a moment he’s afraid he’s fallen asleep. Then the song changes and it’s something he’s never heard before and doesn’t want to hear ever again. But it’s good, because it’s awful and it jerks him awake. He leans against the wall, looks out at the storm that’s slowly dying down. If he were Henry, he’d think it was such a cliché.

 

“Go home lass. It’s gonna be fine.” And he wonders when exactly did the roles get reversed.

 

“Bullshit!” In a second her worry turns to anger. Maybe it’s been building up, she’s not sure. And it’s wildfire, consuming her. “It’s bullshit, and you know it!” Her throat feels raw but the music is so loud and she’s not sure if she could tone down even if she wanted to. “Has three hundred years been too much for you? Do you want to die?”

 

The thing with wildfire is, no matter if it started of with a tree or a leaf, once it catches on it’s almost impossible to stop.

 

“Is this a joke to you?” She doesn’t want to hurt him but she really doesn’t care at that moment.

 

“One where you get me to fall in love with you only so I could watch you die? It that it?”

 

The thing with fire in general is, it consumes all the oxygen. It burns and it suffocates.

 

Emma can’t breathe. She stops yelling and she can’t breathe and she wishes the music was just a little louder so there was a chance he hadn’t heard her. This isn’t… She’s not…

“Swan-” He pushes himself away from the wall and stumbles.

 

“No!” Her finger is trembling and there are tears threatening to spill but it’s okay because it’s dark. Her finger is shaking in fact, as she points it at him, but it’s okay. “No!”

 

She slams the door behind her, runs downstairs. She runs all the way to her house, and the rain is freezing. She runs all the way to her house and for the first time in her life she realizes she has someone to run to.


	6. Anything for you, love.

The window's open and it's dark. It's cold and when he finally passes out at around four in the morning on the third day, there's no one else in the room on the top floor and the music's still blasting. His hair is a mess and when his body goes limp and he slides down the wall, it gets even worse. There's no one else in the room and it's too loud for anyone who might be downstairs to hear the thud of a body hitting the floor.

David's sweatpants are big on him, and now there's dust slowly settling on them. There's still water on the window and it drip-drops and some of it lands on his face. David's pants are old and worn out, but Emma had shoved them in his hands and said they'd be comfortable. Her voice was strained and he bit back his words and he took the pants with a smile that took out of him more than it should have.

Live long enough, and you learn your worst fears don't always come true.

Live long enough, and you learn that sometimes they do.

_It's different this time. It's dark and quiet and it takes Hook a moment to realize the darkness is a bag on his head. Someone's holding his hand and the touch is both foreign and eerily familiar. The silence breaks and there are voices, laughter that seems to come from far away. He knows those voices, he's heard them before but he can't match faces to them. They feel out of place in the dark and he goes to remove the bag. He's not halfway through the motion when the hand in his squeezes and Emma says, "Let me." It's light and sweet and when he finally sees her, standing next to him in a pale blue dress that flows around her body like the sea, he laughs. It's pitched and bordering on hysterical but his nerves settle. The sand beneath his feet bleeds away and the sea behind him swallows itself almost before he notices they're on the beach, but Emma is looking at him and it's all he sees._

_Then they're in the park and the sun is high above Storybrooke. Emma looks happy and Hook can't remember what he was so worried about, but it's still there, beaten back but not leaving him alone. A smile comes to him easily though, if it comes out a tad hollow._

_Mary Margaret and David are sitting on a bench two dozen feet away, unaware of anyone else. It was their laughter, Hook realizes and shoves that feeling that something's wrong further down._

_Emma is still holding his left hand and there's no trace of a hook ever being there. When she calls him, it's Killian. He thinks he should be surprised but it feels perfectly normal and he's not. Not even when he catches sight of what he's wearing and it's jeans and a sweater._

_They walk and time must be passing but the sun's still in the same place and when he pays attention, they're no closer to Emma's parents._

_"You'll do it now, won't you?" She's behind him now, body pressed against his and arms wrapped around his waist. He can't see her face but he knows there's a smile on it. He can't remember what she's talking about and that feeling roars up, but she sounds so happy as she says, "Be my pirate, steal me away." He wants to turn around but she holds him tighter, with one hand, and the other one grips his right wrist. Her touches feel light be he can't move._

_"Anything for you, love." There's no hesitation in his words._

_She lifts his arm, steady. It's only then that he sees it. A gun in his hand, cold and heavy, perfectly aimed. She moves and she moves him with her, the aim shifting back and forth. From Mary Margaret to David and back again. The sun disappears and Storybrooke is gray._

_"Swan, what-?"_

_"Shh, it's okay. You can pick." She's practically singing in his ear and a shiver runs down his spine._

_"Emma!" He can't pull away and his fingers are locked around the gun and he can't let it go. "What the bloody hell are you doing?" Panic and realization crash into him at the same time and it's all a cruel joke._

_His left arm is free and he goes for the gun but the hand is gone and the hook's not there and he ends up trying to push her away with a stump that really shouldn't hurt anymore but does._

_She laughs, and it's not her voice. "Come on, Captain. Tick-tock."_

_"You can't do this, you-!"_

_"Oh, but I can, dearie, and I am!" And there's that sick cackle and Hook thinks he might throw up. It doesn't matter how hard he pulls or pushes, the hold on him is too strong and he's left watching the aim go back and forth, back and forth. Tick-tock._

_"Time's up!" And it's deadly chipper._

_There's a moment from when not Emma speaks and the gun goes off where Hook twists with all the strength he has and feels something break. It's a split second and then there's a bang and then silence._

_The world around him chips and flakes and blows past him, leaving him to stand on nothing as he watches blonde hair turn dark and short, smooth skin cracks and turns to something akin to scales. The last thing he sees before he's swept away as well is green eyes and irises that turn to slits._


	7. Someone To Lean On

At a little past three in the morning, the wind is picking up and making the windows rattle in their frames. Aside from that, it’s quiet, because Emma doesn’t know how to do this, not quite. She’s got her knees pulled up to her chest and Snow’s arm around her shoulders, holding her close, and she thinks, this isn’t right. She thinks, it’s not fair, that it feels so strange. So new, having someone to lean on. She thinks, no one’s supposed to discover what that’s like at thirty.

 

 They’ve been sitting like that short of two hours, ever since Emma woke up in cold sweat and knocked over a lamp in her haste to find her phone. To check there were no calls from Regina. Or the hospital.

 

“I should have stayed.” She doesn’t mean to say it, but the words come out and then it’s to late.

 

“Emma! You had to sleep, you can’t-”

 

“I was just so relieved.” Her voice is small, and she looks away in shame.

 

“What?” Snow watches her daughter, and she doesn’t understand.

 

“To get out, to not look at him. I felt so useless, watching him struggle to stay awake and not being able to help.”

 

“Honey, you’re not-” And again, she doesn’t get to finish because Emma isn’t listening.

 

“So I left, because it’s easier, and it was such a relief.”

 

Snow doesn’t say anything, because she knows it wouldn’t matter, not now. She holds Emma a little tighter.

 

…

 

It happens an hour later. Snow jerks away from her daughter, a hiss of pain escaping before she even registers it. There’s surprise written all over her face as she rolls up her sleeve, revealing a moderately deep cut on her upper arm.

 

“How did…?” Her words fade away because Emma is suddenly on her feet, eyes wide and looking at the slow trickle of blood down her arm.

 

“Mom?” It’s quiet and shaky and Emma doesn’t recognize her own voice. She doesn’t sound like the Savior. It feels familiar. It feels familiar because she’s seen it before, only a few days ago. On Hook, skin bruising and tearing with no cause. The night Liam died. The last time Hook was asleep.

 

“I think- I think he was right.” She’s thinks she’s just stepped into quicksand, and she’s sinking. She didn’t want to believe him, when he first mentioned the possibility, because it made the time run out a bit faster. _“What if next time it’s not a ghost? What if it’s one of you and I’m not the only one who gets hurt?”_

 

Emma wants to move, but dread locks around her lungs, making it hard to breathe. She left Hook in that room, alone, no one there to wake him up. No one there to stop the dream from killing him. Him, and anyone else.

 

“Emma, what are you talking about?” Snow breaks the spell.

 

“Wake dad up, call Dr. Whale!” She’s already going for her jacket, phone in hand and dialing the number before passing it to her mother. “It’s Hook’s dream, and if he’s still asleep…” She looks at her mother and prays to every God she doesn’t believe in that she’s wrong. “…this might not be the end. I have to go!”

 

Emma can’t remember when exactly leaving got hard, but she has a vague feeling it started the day she met Henry.

 

“Just do it! Please.” Maybe it’s because she’s exhausted, or maybe it’s the near constant worry that’s been weighing her down for the last few days, or maybe it’s the confusion and underlying pain on Snow’s face, but Emma’s vision blurs with sudden tears and she has to stop for a moment to compose herself. She doesn’t have time for them. “I’ll explain later, I promise.”

 

And then she’s out the door, sprinting to her car while straining to hear Snow’s voice as she talks on the phone.

 

The five minute ride to Regina’s house, it feels like hours.

 

…

 

There’s no one on the ground floor when Emma bursts in, the door creaking in protest behind her. It’s cold. It’s quiet. The music has stopped, and even though she already knew he was asleep, it still sends a shiver down her spine.

 

When running up the stairs causes her to almost slip and possibly break her neck, she slows down.

 

It’s so cold.

 

…

 

The lights are on in the Magic Shop.

 

“I still think we should have told Emma.” Belle is standing behind the counter, a cup of cold tea in her hands, watching Regina work. They’ve dragged a table to the middle of the small shop, away from anything that might react to the potion.

 

Regina’s shoulders tense at the words and she crushes the small seed with more force than necessary before adding it to the mix.  It boils for a moment, spreading a smell that makes both women take a step back. Than it settles and Regina huffs a breath of relief.

 

“Not until it’s done. With so many ingredients missing, there’s no telling what’s gonna happen. Substitutes don’t always work.” It’s sharp, but the lack of sleep takes some of the edge off her words.

 

Belle looks down, brows drawing together as she swirls the tea. When Rumple left- When she made him leave, it hurt but it was over. It was supposed to be over, he wasn’t supposed to hurt anyone else. she shakes her head, trying not to think about the nightmares Regina said Hook is having. And what they are doing to him.

 

“How much longer?” It’s still dark outside, but she’s given up on the notion of sleep hours ago.

 

“If nothing goes wrong- or blows up –not much.” She adds two strands of hair, one long and blonde, other short and dark, and watches as they color the translucent potion.

 

…

 

She finds him on the floor.

 

For a few seconds, she’s frozen at the door, thinking she’s too late, but then he groans and she’s by his side in an instant. She wants to shake him awake but she’s afraid she’d only hurt him further. So she settles for yelling his name.

 

His eyes open and Emma just sits on the floor, her strength slipping away. “Thank God, Hook-”

 

“Get- away-” and it’s breathless, but the fear in his eyes makes up for it.

 

Emma feels like someone punched her.


	8. Lady Luck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's safe to say the next chapter will be the start of the... second part of the story, of sorts. It should be interesting.
> 
> I'm afraid it won't be up too soon, as I have exams starting in less than two weeks and I've been studying... err, learning, a lot of things, unfortunately none of them school related.
> 
> And as it turns out, mechanical engineering, as interesting as it is to me, is not very helpful when it comes to finding inspiration for writing. 
> 
> Not to drag this out, I'll try to pick up the story as soon as I can. I hope there are people willing to wait. :)
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story so far, good or bad. Reviews are always appreciated. :)
> 
> Have fun people! :)

Awareness creeps up on him, unnoticed. The dream flakes away, along with the gun, and a second or a day later he’s lying on the floor, and she’s looking at him. It’s her eyes and it’s her blonde hair dancing in the wind but all he sees is the way her face twisted and distorted until it was him. Rumplestinskin, holding him close, his face an inch away as he laughs, aiming. Back and forth, from David to Snow.

 

“Thank God, Hook-” And it’s her voice, but it comes from far away. It hits him, but instead of relief he feels that sick laugh curling around him.

 

Actually, it all lasts a second.

 

“Get- away-” The air is thin and the rest dies in his throat. He wants to run but his limbs are heavy and the world is spinning all wrong. So he crawls, away. He tries, anyway.

 

“Hook- Killian! What-

 

-it’s me!” It’s Emma’s voice in the body of the crocodile and it’s the other way around.

 

A sob brings him back.

 

“Emma?” She’s sitting next to him and he lets himself fall.

 

“Yes, it’s me!”

 

She’s crying and smiling at the same time and he wants to ask what’s wrong. The words are at the tip of his tongue when he remembers.

 

The gun.

 

Back and forth.

 

Back and-

 

“Emma…” his lungs protest and he bites back a pained moan. “The dream, your mother-” He goes to sit up and it feels like someone’s struck a knife in his chest.

 

“She’s fine.” Her hands are reaching, almost touching him, but staying away.

 

“I s- I shot-” And then he’s blind, as a coughing fit doubles him over. If he weren’t lost to the world he might see the panic on her face, he might hear it in her voice. He might see the way her eyes widen in horror when his lips turn red and a few drops of blood fall to the floor.

 

The window creaks somewhere above her, far away. Her hands hover in the air, caught in the space between his body and hears. They want to grab, to hold, to keep. Even in the dark, her skin is pale. It gives her pause when, reaching in her jacket pocket, she finds it empty. There’s a moment where her mind shuts down, refusing to think, to dwell, as her hands do the job. One pocket, another. Jeans. She doesn’t have her bag. _“Where’s my phone?”_

 

Somewhere, Lady Luck giggles and turns away.

 

Then Emma remembers. She’d given her phone to Snow.

 

There’s a role reversal as her hands go still, balled into fists, knuckles going white, and her thoughts go haywire.

 

She’s almost out the door, one foot in the hallway, when she thinks to flip the switch. Nothing happens. Once, twice, still nothing, and she’s running down the hall in the dark, trying not to think of the implications. There it is, the upstairs bathroom, its door ajar and she slips inside. Emma allows herself to hope as she fumbles along the wall. She’d been in here once before, if she could just- But then she finds the switch, and in that fraction of a second where anything is possible, she holds her breath. Nothing.

 

“This is not happening!”

 

No one hears Emma scream in a big, dark house. The power’s out in the whole street.

 

…

 

Regina’s fingers twitch, and the lights in the Magic Shop flicker. She’s trying to take deep breaths, calm down, but her chest refuses to expand fully. Belle is covering behind her, poking her head over her shoulder every few seconds and stealing a glance at the smoldering potion ten feet away. Regina wishes for a moment she hadn’t changed sides, so she could strangle her fidgeting form. Patience, they say, is a virtue. Regina doesn’t have it.

 

“I hate potions.” Her leg bounces twice, three times. The pressure that’s been building behind her eyes for the past few days, fueled by hours of research and coffee, gives way to the start of a glorious headache. “They take too damn long.”

 

There’s nothing to do now but wait. Every now and then, the potion sizzles and the bubbles form on its surface. Form, then pop. Regina wonders just how alive magic is. Because every time the potion farts, and it does smell something awful, it feels like it’s mocking her.

 

…

 

Emma stands still, one palm flat against the door. The wood is cool and smooth under her touch, solid. The room beyond is quiet, a box, she thinks. Her own Schrödinger’s cat. For a moment, Emma hates the door with a vengeance.

 

She forces air into her lungs and steps inside.

 

…

 

“Why are you doing this?”

 

The question catches Regina off guard, and her face darkens. The words “shut up” are almost past her lips as she half turns to face Belle.

 

And Belle is looking at her, curiosity and guilt making her look younger than she is.

 

Regina can’t help an exasperated sigh as she leans on the edge of the desk now behind her.

“Because-” and she sounds more tired than she’s been since the whole thing started days ago. “Because it gives me something to do. Something to think about.” She doesn’t say, _someone else to think about_ , but the image of Robin dissolving behind the barrier dances in front of her eyes.

 

When she feels Belle’s hand on her own, traces of compassion etched in her features, Regina feels helpless fury lick at her insides. _How dare she-_

 

But Belle is suddenly no longer looking at her, no longer touching her.

 

“Look!” She sounds inappropriately giddy as she points to Regina’s right.

 

The potion finally settles.

 

…

 

_She’s standing on the street, looking up, cold dread coiling around her like a snake as he sways on the edge of the roof. Ten stories out of her reach._

He’s not, actually, Emma knows. He’s right there, draped over her lap and chest, dead weight threatening to slip from her grasp. Her hands are cold, and she wishes he would shiver when she rakes her fingers through his hair.

 

Minutes later, although hours are just as plausible in her opinion, when the room discretely spins around her a few times, it dawns on her that she’s been mimicking his breathing. Making a conscious decision to draw air, she feels like she’s just broken the surface after being underwater for too long.

 

When her mind unexpectedly wanders and she thinks of Snow, it feels like she’s just betrayed him, and quiet tears turn to sobs. Because she couldn’t help thinking it might have been easier. Easier if she’s stayed with her mother, and heard about him in the morning. Easier if it was Regina who found his body, and called her. Easier if she didn’t watch him die, unable to do anything.

 

It’s really nothing like in the movies.

 

There’s no music in the background. The storm has been reduced to a breeze that makes the hinges creak as the door barely moves behind her.

 

She doesn’t plead, doesn’t scream. She feels frantic and numb and on fire.

 

She doesn’t plead, her fingers just tighten their hold on him as he stops breathing.

 

…

 

A triumphant smile stretches across Regina’s lips, small and private as she backs away from the potion, pocketing two vials. Belle is still pacing behind her, almost reaching for their coats a few times and then backing away, waiting for the verdict.

 

Regina is tempted to let her stew for a while longer, as a secret revenge for annoying her.

 

“It worked.” She says instead, tapping her pocket gently.

 

The sound of vials clanking against each other has both women hurrying for their wardrobe, the sense of urgency greater now that they have something to contribute.

 

They are almost out the door when Regina stumbles, then reaches blindly around for something to hold on to. A second later, just as Belle takes her hand, another wave leaves her breathless and dizzy. They both go down when Regina’s knees give way.

 

“What’s wrong?” Belle sounds both worried and pained as she tries to get out from under Regina.

 

“Emma.”


	9. A chair is useless if no one sits in it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, god damn it, I don't have any idea how I managed to do this, but it seems I forgot to post this chapter two f****** years ago, when I posted it on FF.net. Which is... just like me, actually.
> 
> I'm so very sorry.  
> Also, for the incredibly long pause I've made, which I'm hoping to rectify sometime soon.
> 
> So sorry!

He wakes up in a field. Bright sky, sunless, the only thing he sees. 

A blink, and it’s gone. He wakes up on the Jolly Roger, a warm body next to him. Smells of the sea, the salt, sneak in through the cracks in the boards, underneath the door. He feels the cool breeze wash over him and he burrows deeper into the blankets, drawing her closer.

There’s a noise, in the distance. Unfocused, undefined. Almost like waves crashing on the rocks, but the ship is still, sailing smoothly.

“Shhh…” Limbs tangled, she turns to face him. She’s beautiful like that, hair in a frenzy, sticking out at odd angles, and Killian wants to remember last night. He finds it odd, but only for a fleeting moment, that he cannot make out her features. There’s a wire cut somewhere between his eyes and his brain. It’s okay though, her knows her. He knows he does, and in a minute, he’ll remember. In a minute.

“It can’t get to you here.” Her lips don’t move more than to curl into a smile, the voice seemingly materializing in his mind.

“What can’t?”

She breathes next to him, “Oh, you know that.” The air traveling out of her lungs glows, faintly, filling the small cabin. Killian is tempted to mistake it for sunlight. She breathes next to him, the hum of it overwhelming. It’s familiar, maybe a lullaby from a long time ago.

“Sleep.”

And he does.

…

“You’re high.” It’s a statement, one that Belle doesn’t find quite as funny as Regina does. She snaps shut her phone, having called David and Mary-Margaret to tell them something’s happened. Slumped in the passenger seat, Regina giggles next to Belle. Out of all the strange things she’s seen in her life, to Belle, this one’s the strangest.

“As a kite.” Regina says, head lolling back contently. Belle isn’t driving particularly fast, but to Regina, the world outside goes by in a blur. Hand in her lap, her fingers dance sluggishly over the glass vials, making them chime.

They’re halfway to Regina’s house, and dawn is breaking.

…

Once everyone’s there, they stand in a semicircle around the two of them, worry and relief mixing on all but one face. Because Regina is still kind of high, and she’s done her part. She lays the vials on the desk, one by one, seemingly mesmerized at the way they break the light.

And Emma and Hook, they both look peaceful for the first time in days. A blanket’s been pulled over them both, the window above closed. She’s still holding him, closely, but it’s no longer a desperate attempt to get him to stay.

David coughs, clears his throat, feet shuffling slightly, uncomfortable. “Umm…” There’s just something about seeing his daughter so close to someone, even if it’s not… It’s not like… “Should we wake them up? Him?”

Mary-Margaret looks at him, unable to stop a smile. “David…”

“In case the nightmare starts again.” He’s quick with a cover-up, but that’s not all that is. He pointedly doesn’t think of their middle-of-the-night visit to the hospital.

“It won’t.” 

They all turn to Regina, three pairs of eyes waiting for reassurance. 

“Not yet, anyway.” She waves her hands at the sleeping pair, still feeling light and careful not to float away. But they don’t know that.

“What are you…?” David mimics her movements, eyes searching for whatever it is she’s trying to show them.

“Can’t you see it?” But of course they can’t, and she sighs, exasperated. It’s so obvious, the soft light that covers and flows over the sleeping figures, almost like a film of sunlight. 

“The magic Swan performed, to heal the pirate,” and she doesn’t say, to bring him back, because she’s not sure, “It was strong.” She expects to see understanding, but is met with same confused looks from before.

“It was _strong_. 

You don’t get it. A person isn’t born with that much power. You can’t get that much power. No one can. What Swan did was an accident. A fluke.”

“Healing someone isn’t impossible.” It’s Belle, stepping closer.

“It’s not. But Swan doesn’t know how to heal. Her emotions got so out of control that she somehow managed to drain the magic out of… well, everything. Everyone. A part of it at least.

That’s what happened, back at the Shop.” This she directs at Belle, an unspoken apology for the other woman’s bruised wrist. “And the high is… blowback, I guess.”

“So, she broke the curse, in the process?” Snow can’t help the hope that wells up inside her. Not only for Emma and Hook, but the stinging bullet graze on her arm reminds her that the curse threatens them all.

“Not exactly. It’s… She detonated a bomb to light a campfire. This is residue. Magical residue, of sorts, it’s creating a barrier around them. It’ll keep the curse at bay for a while. A few days. More, if we’re lucky. It’ll give us time.”

…

David carries Emma downstairs, steps slow and measured, careful not to wake her even though he doubts he could if he tried. There’s a moment, as he’s passing the room where he’d put Hook earlier, where his wife looks at him as if she’s expecting him to put Emma in the same bed. He shakes his head and smartly keeps his mouth shut when Mary-Margaret laughs behind him.

…

Three days later, both Emma and Killian are still asleep.

Henry is the only one who stays to sit beside him, for more than a minute. Now that there are no wounds to clean, no bandages to change and no reason to keep him awake, there is no need for it. Maybe it’s just that Emma is two rooms down the hall.

Maybe he sits beside him because there is a chair next to the bed, and a chair is useless if no one sits in it.

So Henry bounces back and forth, telling each sleeping form about the other.

Sometimes he brings the book and reads them stories they all know. Some, they’ve lived.

…

It’s a calm between two storms. An intermission, where everyone’s trying to catch up and get ahead of things.

Every night, Regina sneaks into her son’s room, watches him for a while, than goes to bed. There’s a picture on the table next to her bed, turned at an angle that makes it just impossible to see more than the frame. She’s vary careful to only look at it in the morning, because with a full day ahead, it’s easier to handle. At night, she changes with her back turned to the photo. She doesn’t want to dream of Robin.

Belle doesn’t leave the Magic Shop much. The weather in Storybrooke is mild and lazy those days, the light coming and going slowly, but with no sun. She stays inside and goes through her books, one after another, not sure what she’s searching for. Maybe a hidden note from Rumplestinskin; something that would justify all the pain he’s caused. But she knows better. Maybe it’s just easier to hate him, and love him, silently, away from everyone. Just for a while.

The magic gets weird following Emma’s blowout. It becomes impossible to catch, to control. Unattainable. It flows freely, unbound, with a will of its own. Emma’s yellow bug laughs, gears turning, every time someone looks at it. Dr. Whale stops eating soup for a while, because each spoon melts at his touch. 

…

They both wake up in the middle of the fourth night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not finished, and I'm ashamed. 
> 
> Hope you're having a good day!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Hi. ^_^;
> 
> **WARNING! Please read!** Good, I just wanted to point out, for the sake of anyone who might've read the little notification on my profile page [where I promised to start posting once the story is done], that I've made myself a liar. This is not finished! **...bc I suck so very hard it's not even funny.** ^^;
> 
> It is my sincere hope that posting another chapter will force my brain to cooperate and let me finish this damn thing, but I've learned my lesson and am not making any more promises, so please have that in mind. I know how frustrating it can get to be waiting for an update that never comes. ^_^; I'm sorry!
> 
> After... what, two years? of not watching the show or anything related to it, and feeling completely out of touch with the characters and the story- I'm not holding my breath for any kind of continuity, or accurate portrayal, or- anything, really. 
> 
> So... enjoy? If possible?  
> Have a super-sweet day in any case! :)

Consciousness, muddled and reluctant as it is, comes on an exhale; a slew of barely-there, convoluted thoughts with no beginning or end that peter out before solidifying. It’s an avalanche of confusion that barrels over him and buries him and leaves him cold and in the dark for a few agonizing, rattling breaths. _And breathe, just- what-_

There’s a desert nesting in his mouth, arid and vast and undeniable, seeping down his throat and burrowing its way between teeth. _What-_

Wrestling his eyelids apart is harder than it’s ought to be, so perhaps the desert reaches up as well as down and there’s sand welding them shut. It shouldn’t be possible, really, should-

It’s dark; deep and encompassing absence of color and light and another too-dry, screeching inhale of unease and flickering panic. He hasn’t gone blind, it’s not-

Five fingers jitter in place and then curl and _clench_ , and Hook has a handful of something soft and textured. Body-warm and ambient-cool in places. Sheets? They’re all wrong for the worn out, fraying stretches of fabric thrown over the make-do bed on the not-Jolly-Roger, the sound of them rustling and bunching up between his fingers is too smooth, they don’t drag and snag at the edges and abrasions of his fingernails. Where the bloody h-

Oh.

_Oh._

_There it is_ , his treacherous brain deigning to kick into high gear, and- and- he _remembers_ \- He remembers her eyes, shiny with contained moisture and peeled wide and scared; pale skin, paler still hair pulled up in what must have been haste because strands of it were hanging loose and tangled and- Pain. He remembers pain, a searing heat in his chest trying to spread out and burn him alive, in sharp bloody contrast with the chill of everything else. It’d been different, this time, it’d _felt_ different than… severed limbs and broken bones and blood flowing from broken skin. Intrusive and wholesome in a way one would attribute to-

He remembers a gentle scrape against his scalp; fingers carding through damp hair with stilted persistence. 

He’d died, hadn’t he?

Hook keeps still, body sprawled and the only hand clutching the foreign sheet, and waits for the panic to spark and spread and boil him from the inside out. He can just about make out faint outlines of the room he’s in, now, solid blocks of varying degrees of black; he must’ve been awake longer than he’s realized.

His heart doesn’t commit to racing, just beats out a few faster notes and then goes back to its semi-leisurely pace.

So this- this can’t be hell. Can it?

His throat might disagree on that, though, and holy f- He needs water. Deciding that the simplest problem should be the first to fix generates enough focused willpower to get him stumbling out of bed. It’s a funny shuffle, for a bit, of arms and legs still uncoordinated with sleep and fabric tangled around them, but then he’s sitting on the edge of the mattress and his feet touch something sort-of-soft and fuzzy that he can’t make out just yet.

His head feels light and in vague danger of becoming detached and floating away, which is unsettling and odd but doesn’t- hurt. Nothing does, now he come to think of it, with the exception of a low-grade ache slithering up and down his back. He straightens out his fingers in front of him, not that he can see them, and then slowly bends them, one by one. The brace is gone, and his hand doesn’t hurt, not even in the healed-but-still-a-bit-sore kind of way.

A soft, thumping sound filters in from what must be another room, judging by its muffled quality. Then comes a creak, more thumping that is now recognizable as bare feet on wooden flooring. Funny, that; it sounds eerily reminiscent of late nights on a ship. 

The stomping nears, falters, and-

A door slams open, sweeps wide on squealing hinges and ricochets off the wall with a sharp thud, and then finally there is light in the room. It paints everything dimly yellow and surreal. Emma is standing there, one hand on the doorframe and the other outstretched, halfway between her body and the knob. God, she is beautiful; all wild eyes and hair in a disarray, flushed and breathing like she’s been running. His heart flips over and gets to rapping against his sternum and his whole body might just chip and crumble under its strain. They’re both there, ten feet of space and no haze, no fog of barely-there and barely-awake separating them, and she’s backlit and too far away to see each minutiae of her expression, of those all-consuming eyes, but- they’re bright and big, trained on him and him alone, and that’s- it’s a wave pulling him under; it’s surfacing after too long without air, when the world has already dropped away. Everything.

It’s everything. 

He’s too old for this shit; he’s full of fissures and gaps and empty spaces where human pieces used to be. He’s long since past the point of believing in miracles, even in their insane world. He’d died- hadn’t he?

There were fingers in his hair, slow and unsteady and desperate and- and enough to pull the remnants of last scattered thoughts together, to anchor them into something cohesive. He remembers some of them, he-

He’d thought he’d never get to see her again.

“Emma,” Hook says; clear and warm- in his head. 

What comes out is more befitting of a parched animal’s dying rasp, and his lips catch and stick on the “m”. He’d be angry at himself if he didn’t see the full-body shiver that sways her in place, and then he has an armful of Savior and none of it matters, anyway. Her fingers have a hold on the material of the shirt he doesn’t remember putting on, digging into the already-sore muscles of his back and- it’s good. It’s fine, it’s perfect. The tremble of her shoulders and heaving breaths, warm and damp against the collar, just brushing the skin underneath. She pulls him in like gravity and his body bends and molds to hers without his input, on instinct.

Has she always been this strong; before coming here, before having the lives of hundreds of people dropped on those shoulders?

It's quiet, almost oppressively so but for their breaths scraping in and out. The others must not have woken yet; Hook has no doubt that there are others. Regina's house has been near constantly full for the last however many days.

Seconds tick away, unheard, barely felt, and the desperation of the grip they have on each other ebbs away, morphs into a welcome-back-hug instead, and all the unanswered questions start creeping in at the edges of contentment. Just a little longer, god, just a while more, another few stolen bits of peace before the reality whisks it all away. It can't be too much to ask for, can it? They've earned it, they must have- dying must garner him this, at least. Right?

The whats and whys and hows come shrill and sharp in his head, but only on every fifth violent thump of his heart; the interim is largely silent and grateful and focused on the pale gold strands tickling his face, catching at the stubble there. The interim is stolen heaven.

"Ho- how do you feel?" Emma says at one point, on the second try, and there is something to be said for savoring the drag of cracked, holy lips against his collarbone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot. ^^; I don't really have anyone in real life to show what I write to, or online, or... well. I doubt it would make me a more productive human being or a better writer, since those are unattainable goals, it seems, but- If anyone here, for some reason, would like to talk plot or characters or how-the-fuck-am-I-gonna-finish-this, and to help me wade through the 10k of muddled crap I have and don't know how to shape into something useable... shoot me a message on Tumblr [thehmmwv]. Or here; either way, I'd be forever grateful! :)


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